


potato peels and subway rides

by professortennant



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Confessions, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 05:24:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21221294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/professortennant/pseuds/professortennant
Summary: “The natural world is amazing,” he tells her, awe in his voice. “I mean, c’mon! All that power, all that energy, in just a potato!” He holds up the bare starchy vegetable for her inspection and they both pause and admire the simple, but astounding, food.She breaks the strange reverie first, teasing him. “Are you going to tell me there’s a universe in that potato?”“Might be, Claire! Might be!”They dissolve into giggles and it feels like they are their own universe in that moment: just them and a couple boxes and buckets of potatoes and the New York sunset.





	potato peels and subway rides

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little disjointed and a little abrupt, but written 100% for the sake of writing lest I forget how.

Because you should never make a bet against Brad Leone, she’s at his side at the back worktable of the kitchen, the sun setting over the city’s skyline and filtering in through the giant windows, prepping and peeling boxes and boxes of potatoes. The urge to stop and take a picture of the light dancing over their hands and the water of their potato bucket is only barely checked. 

“Oh my god, Claire, look at this one.” Brad extends his hand to show her the lumpy potato in his hand, part of the peel still streaky and attached to the top of the potato. “Looks just like you!”

She arches an eyebrow at him, eyes darting pointedly from the potato to Brad’s eyes.

“Are you saying I look like a potato?”

His eyes go comically wide, like he’s realized his mistake too late. “No, no! I just meant—Because of the peel and then your hair! And, y’know, the—“

She gives him an out, plucks the potato from his hand and takes her paring knife to the top of the potato to finish peeling it, dropping it in the water and then flicking him with the starchy water for good measure. He grins toothily at her and her heart lurches somewhere the vicinity of her stomach as she shakes her head at him, reaching for another potato.

But he’s in a mood today—cheerful and teasing—and he reaches right in beside her, hands brushing against hers, knocking her chosen potato out of her hands and picking it up for himself, sticking his tongue out at her when she looks at him, hand on her hip and a faux-outraged expression on her face.

“Snooze and lose, Saffitz,” he says, working his knife over the papery peel of his potato. It strikes her how talented he is and how hard he tries to hide it, sometimes. They’re both fairly clumsy in the kitchen. The only difference is that while hers is genuine (truly, restaurant life was never going to be for her), his is played up for laughs, knocking over bottles and spilling fermented concoctions because it’s what the audience expects of him.

But now, he works quickly and efficiently, the potato and knife looking doll-like in his larger hands. It doesn’t matter, though, because Brad navigates the blade between the razor thin barrier of potato flesh and peel with little waste in record time. 

When he drops his peeled potato in their ‘done’ bucket, he looks between his bucket and hers and _tsks. _“Catch up, Claire,” he eggs her on, appealing to her sense of competition.

“Brad,” she says, a whine tinging her voice. “It’s not fair. Your hands are like, three times the size of mine. My hand is the same size as the potato! I can’t grip it.”

“I’m disappointed in you,” he tells her, shaking his head dramatically and laughing. “Already making excuses for losing.”

“Oh, I’ll show you losing,” she mutters under her breath, redoubling her efforts. So focused on the task before her, she misses the soft, affectionate look he sends her. 

The thing about prepping vegetables with Brad is that he has a way of making even the most mundane tasks _fun. _He has stories for everything: the time he went and visited a potato farmer for _It’s Alive_ and how amazing farmers are and the potato harvesting process is, the time he and his buddies built a potato gun, covered them in different color paints, and shot them at each other in their own version of backyard paintball.

“God, potatoes are _amazing,_ Claire.”

“They’re pretty good,” she agrees with a smile. 

“Okay, but tell me this: How come we can make, y’know, alarm clocks and shit out of it?”

Her eyes light up as she explains to him about phosphoric acid and ion exchanges between copper coils and potato starches. He hangs onto her every word, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“The natural world is amazing,” he tells her, awe in his voice. “I mean, c’mon! All that power, all that energy, in just a potato!” He holds up the bare starchy vegetable for her inspection and they both pause and admire the simple, but astounding, food.

She breaks the strange reverie first, teasing him. “Are you going to tell me there’s a universe in that potato?”

“Might be, Claire! Might be!”

They dissolve into giggles and it feels like they are their own universe in that moment: just them and a couple boxes and buckets of potatoes and the New York sunset.

It seems as good and perfect a moment as any to toe a line they’ve drawn between themselves—a line that _she’s_ drawn between them. She licks her lips, focuses her attention on the last of the potatoes in her bucket, and thinks about the way Carla had asked her at drinks last night if things had changed between them.

_“C’mon, hon. You’re saying you two never?” _

_She chokes on her French 75, staring at her friend in shock. “What? No! Brad and I are friends.” She stresses _friends_ and takes another healthy gulp of her cocktail. _

_“Oh.” And then, “Because you want to be friends or because you’re too scared to go for something more?”_

_Her friend isn’t pulling punches tonight. Claire licks her lips, feeling off-guard. “Carla, I don’t think—I mean—“ She groans in frustration. “It’s not that simple. We just—We just _are_.”_

_“And you’re okay with that? Both of you?”_

_Claire doesn’t have an answer for that._

_Carla pats her forearm in a sympathetic, supportive manner. “Take it from me, Claire. You two? Not normal. There’s something there. And if I’m way off base, you can ignore me. But the whole kitchen sees it. And if you two wanted to make a go of it, it’d be the least surprising thing to happen in the kitchen.” Carla drains her fourth martini, gathers her purse, and presses a familial kiss to her friend’s cheek. “Just something to think about.”_

“Brad? We’re normal, right?”

Brad snorts, plops the next prepped potato down and picks up the next one. “I mean, I don’t think anyone here is normal, Claire. Christ.”

“But I mean—“ She takes a deep breath, carves another line of potato peel off with her knife. “I mean, are _we_ normal? The—the way we are.”

Beside her, Brad goes still and focused in a way so distinctly un-Bradlike that she thinks she’s misstepped somewhere. They’re not ready for this conversation—if there even _is_ a conversation to be had here. Fuck, maybe she’s gotten it wrong this whole time and—

“Hell, Claire, I don’t know,” he sighs out, dropping his potato and turning to face her, hip leaning against the counter. “I don’t really think about it. We just _are_, right?”

It makes her pause, his response an almost word-for-word echo of her own response to Carla last night. It makes her smile, surprised once again that for as different as they can be, they are eerily, scarily on the same page sometimes. 

“Yeah, I guess so,” she says slowly, thinking. He’s right. They just _are_ and it’s effortless and easy and neither of them had to think about it. Maybe that means something. 

“I can see you thinkin’. Give your noodle a rest, Claire. We don’t gotta be anything more than just us, okay?”

It almost hurts how easily he uses _we_ and _us._

Brad clears his throat, turns back to his bucket and resumes potato peeling. They’re almost done now, only a half dozen or so left. It’s just a matter of composting the peels, storing the potatoes for tomorrow’s use, and knocking off the kitchen lights. 

“You wanna tell me what brought on the existential questions about us this fine New York evening?” he asks, voice light and careful. But she knows him and she can hear the probe, curious why today—this moment, over a bucket of peeled potatoes—she has decided to push the issue of defining their relationship. 

“Just something Carla said to me,” she says vaguely, focusing on the careful pull of the heel of the blade down the papery peel.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks interestedly. “And what did ole Carla Roo say?”

“She, um, she thought—shethoughtweshouldmaybebetogether.” It comes out in a rush and he blinks at her, stunned.

“_Together_, together?”

“What? Like being with me would be so bad?” It comes out high-pitched and defensive, the last potato dropping into their bucket, cheeks stinging with emotion. 

Conversations like this, she thinks, should be done drunk only, when one could blame bravery on alcohol. It’s agony having this conversation sober. Talking about her feelings is hard enough, but talking about her feelings about Brad with Brad is near impossible. 

He touches her elbow softly, drawing he attention, looking wide-eyed and panicked. “No! No! Being with you would be good—_great, _even. I mean—Fuck, Claire. I don’t know what I mean.”

Both of their cheeks are red and they’re not looking at each other, suddenly very interested in their prep. Her heart is beating unnaturally loud, it feels like, and she wonders if he can hear it. They’re approaching a line that she thought was out of reach.

And then his foot nudges hers and she looks up at him. He’s staring at her with those bright blue eyes of his and when he speaks, it’s in low, hushed tones.

“What I meant was, being with you would be the opposite of bad. It would be good. Awesome, even. If, if we were together I mean. If you, if you wanted that, I meant that’d be something I’d maybe want, too. If that’s....what you want.”

She nudges her foot back against his and smiles softly at him. “I think maybe I could want that. Maybe we should wrap up here and head somewhere more private and, um, talk about it.”

Claire can’t believe their relationship changed over potatoes. They really are an amazing food.

____________________

After the potatoes are sealed up, the peelings deposited in the compost bin, and the kitchen lights turned off, they go home together. His hand hovers at the small of her back, leading her through the building, streets, and busy subway station. Walking through the streets of New York is a different experience with Brad at her side. He keeps her close, guides her through the parting sea of pedestrians who just make way for someone of Brad’s stature. 

It’s not until they’re on the subway car rattling towards her apartment that panic settles in. Because things are weird and awkward. Brad won’t quite look at her and keeps apologizing every time he touches her. The walk to the station is eerily quiet, a feat she didn’t think would be possible with Brad, and it’s sending her brain into overdrive. It’s all evidence that this _thing_ between them will never work. They can’t even get through a five minute interaction without being weird. And she doesn’t want to lose this friendship that means so much to her and—

“You’re overthinking things,” he murmurs against her ear, leaning down and steadying her with a hand on her hip as the subway jostles them. “Turn your brain off until we get to your place, okay?”

She shivers at the feel of his lips against her ear, a new touch for them. She wants to explore what it would feel like with his lips on other parts of her body, wants to know what he’d do if she turned in his arms and just pressed her mouth to his to find out if if the electricity between them was real. 

It occurs to her that she’s already half-in love with him; that what she feels for him is more than just attraction. He’s a man who _knows_ her. Not just her good parts but her terrible, unflattering bad ones, too. The parts that make her sometimes unbearable to be around. But Brad has never run from them, has always stood his ground and taken the brunt of her bad attitude and handled her in a way no one else can. 

And with that, she sinks back against him, let’s him steady her the rest of the way home.

____________________

Inside her apartment, they strip off their coats and shoes and get comfortable. Brad takes up every nook and cranny of her apartment, filling it with his personality and presence. It occurs to her that her apartment has been missing something up until this point.

It scares her how easily he slides into her space and how nothing about him being there makes her want to run and hide. 

“Drinks!” she announces, nervous energy radiating from her. Nerves—not because of him—but because of what’s next, the steps they need to take to stop tip-toeing up against the line between them and hold hands and cross it together. She needs a little liquid courage to get her across it. 

She excuses herself to the kitchen, pulls out a few beers, fumbles for the bottle opener and popping open the caps which clatter and roll over the countertop. Her hands shake as she tries to collect them, babbling about the stupid design of bottles these days and how they should be seeking alternatives. 

He steps up behind her, his front brushing against her back, caging her in as he reaches around either side of her and still her hands, stops her nervous babbling. She remains trapped in his arms, pressed between the kitchen counter and the solid warmth of him. 

“Claire, relax. It’s just me.” His lips are at the shell of her ear again and goosebumps erupt over her skin. 

She turns to face him, nervously licking her lips, peering up at him from beneath lowered lashed.“That’s what scares me,” she confesses. 

He grins at her easily, assuredly. His pinkies graze the curve of her hips, comforting her like a skittish stray. “Claire, I’m like, the least scary person in the planet. I’m a cuddly freakin’ bear. Look at this beard!” 

It’s dumb and silly and she laughs like he knew she would. He raises a gentle hand to brush over the curve of her cheek. “Nothing has to happen here if you don’t want it to, Claire. I just, y’know, want a space in your life. However you want me there.”

“Why aren’t you freaking out about this?” she whispers, hands hesitantly reaching up to rest against his chest. He’s solid and warm under her hands and she can’t believe she’s never touched him like this before. It feels like puzzle pieces locking into place.

“Listen, I may not have a Harvard degree or nothin’, but I kinda figured you out a while back, Claire. Just waiting for your big ole brain to catch up,” he teases.

Her mouth drops at this, surprise rushing through her, mind reeling. “This whole time? Brad! Why didn’t you say anything?!” 

He raises an eyebrow at her in disbelief. “Claire,” he deadpans in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m like, the last person you listen to on a regular basis.”

“That is not true! I always ask you for help.”

“That’s not the same as listening though.”

“Brad.”

“_Claire_.” He sighs, tightens his grip on her hips. “If Carla hadn’t said anything to you, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” She starts to interrupt him but he puts his fingers over her lips, silencing her. His eyes only dropped to her mouth for a half-second, momentarily distracted by the visual of his fingers on her mouth, her plush bottom lip pressing softly against the pads of his fingertips.

He cleared his throat, continuing. “You got your thought process, gotta digest all the information and break it all down into its parts. And I respect that! You need to, y’know, evaluate all the scenarios and outcomes.” He shrugs. “I was just hedging my bets on this particular outcome.”

She stares at him in wonder. This man, this overactive, bouncing from one conversation to the next, boundless energy, impatient man waited for _her_.

Before she can think about doing anything else, because it feels right and perfect and like the next logical step, she slides her hands up over his shoulders to wrap around his neck, pushes up on her toes, and presses her lips to his gently. 

His response to her is tentative, letting her take the lead, not wanting to push too fast too soon. But Claire doesn't want to that from him. She can feel him practically vibrating in his skin, holding himself back. It only takes her sucking his bottom lip into her mouth, teeth sinking into the flesh and smoothing the hurt with her tongue, to make him come alive. He grips her hips and pulls her against him, fingers hooking into her belt loops as if anchoring her to him. 

Brad, she finds, kisses with every inch of his body. His mouth devours hers, tongue sliding against her own, applying just the right amount of pressure to make her whimper in the back of her throat and curl her hands into his hair and demand more. He slips a thigh between her legs and presses up, gives her something to rock down against for relief as one big palm slides from her hip up to palm her breast, squeezing roughly enough to make her break the kiss with a cry of his name. 

Everything feels out of control and fast, a rush of endorphins and pleasure and _Brad. _It's years of foreplay exploding in a frenzy of hands and mouths and gasps. 

For a half second, she considers stopping and slowing things down. There's a part of her that wants to stop and think about this, make sure they're doing the right thing. They still haven't really _talked_ about what this all means, how their relationship will change inside and outside of the kitchen. 

But then he presses his hips to hers and she feels how hard he is against her, revels in the hot, panting rasp of her name from his lips into the crook of her neck--a plea, begging her for more of her hands on his body.

There is no time for thinking--not tonight. 

They’ve waited long enough. 


End file.
